6:23 in the Morning

"Good Morning, Mama, how are you today?!"
My 2 year old bounds, climbs, yanks himself onto my bed examining my face
I struggle to open one eye and suddenly we are nose to nose,
his bright eyes not only alert, but shining

As if I should already be impatiently awaiting,
at 6:23 A.M.,
The Grand Adventure that will be this day

"Too early, Ty, go back to sleep, o.k.?"
He deflates like a balloon, wilting back into the covers
and reaches to search for my hair with one hand,
tightly winding it around his chubby little fist

As if my hair is his safety latch,
a bungee cord,
He uses this harness to pull my hair to his face

He pops his thumb in his mouth, forefinger over the bridge of his nose,
face buried into my mane, and inhales deeply
The sweet smell of slobber mixed with suave.
He snuggles as close as possible

As if close can never be close enough,
Wallerin' my mama used to call it,
because there is always something that is closer than close

Then and only then, after his most important, personal ritual
Ty slips back to sleep,
Body peaceful and limp, hand sliding from my hair,
Thumb falling out of his mouth onto the pillow

As if there is no greater sleeping pill
than finding the spot that is closer than close,
wallerin' on mama, drifting away.